


Na Taaron se Koi Bhi Rishta Banaya

by DelilahMidnight



Category: Devdas (2002)
Genre: AU, Anyway who falls in love in one night?, F/F, Im fucking with the timeline a little bit sorry cuz otherwise it doesnt work, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24105271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelilahMidnight/pseuds/DelilahMidnight
Summary: “This was a very big mistake, Thakurain,” she whispers. “We should never have met, lady and whore."
Relationships: Parvati "Paro" Chakraborty/Chandramukhi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late spring, the year after Paro gets married. A few months before the Durga Puja.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I'm a Pakistani Muslim who just watched this movie for the first time yesterday. If I get any dialogue or cultural/religious references wrong, I apologize profusely, and please feel free to correct me!

Her decision is hasty, but no less calculated for it. Wrapping the red cloth tightly around the earth from Chandramukhi’s doorway, she tucks it into the pouch at the end of her _pallu_ , draping the garment so it neither bunches nor pulls, looking for all the world as if she’s coming back empty-handed. The new bride, failed in her mission.

When she reaches the _haveli_ , a simple, _maasoom sa bahana_ : she was too shy, the _keechar_ threatened to stain her hem, the heat was too much for her, she would try again in a few days. Badi Ma shakes her head, smiles indulgently, and calls for a cold glass of _lassi_ for the poor thirsty child. Bhuvan frowns but doesn’t say anything, his posture a salt pillar.

_____________

The second time Chandramukhi tries to touch her feet, Paro cries out in genuine dismay, quickly stoops to seize her by the biceps. Her skin is warm and her sweet breath smells of _elaichi_ when she laughs and asks, “ _Kaisay ajeeb si thakorain hain aap, jo iss neechhkur tawaif ke chhaukhat pe baar baar pahunchti hain?_ ”

Paro isn’t entirely sure herself what she’s doing here, only that hearing Dev’s name from another person’s lips after so long had been _jaise_ _ghar aana_ , like tasting the water from her own _haveli’s_ well after drinking bitter tears of her own loneliness for an age.

Chandramukhi takes her fingers—not her hand, just her fingers—leads her up a set of tile stairs, soothing and cool to her feet, to a sumptuous room decorated with silk couches, embroidered pillows, rugs and curtains and softly glowing oil lamps, not yet lit for the night’s business.

Paro isn’t used to lying, never has been: so well-loved by her family and neighbors alike, any thought of punishing her would evaporate the instant she turned tear-filled eyes to her disciplinarian. Guiltily admitting her crimes and presenting her fat little palms for a switch had always somehow made her more likeable to even the strictest of her teachers, aunts, and servants.

She isn’t used to lying, so she doesn’t.

“I want to know if you’ve seen him. I need to know, Chandramukhi. I need to know where he is, how he is—who is taking care of him? What if he’s had an accident and no one reached him in time—?”

Chandramukhi’s face sharpens, a _morni_ sensing a fox stalking her chicks. Her eyebrows rise in a graceful _parvat_. She tucks her feet beneath her, one soft hand covers Paro’s, the other reaches out, bridges the distance between them, gently grips her shoulder. “Dev Babu is a strong man, a smart man. He has many friends. _Aur vaisay bhi_ ,” she laughs a little, “if it comes to it, he’s charming enough that some kind stranger will always help him if he’s in need.”

Paro’s eyes, pearls of chalcedony, look doubtful. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. A flicker down. Chandramukhi swallows, then smiles prettily, pulls her hands back, the _morni_ retreating, demurely arranging her feathers into the most non-threatening display. “Come Paro, _ek_ cup _chai peethe hain_.”

When she gets up from the couch to fetch the _chaidaani_ and two pretty glasses, Paro feels the loss of her presence like a bleeding wound.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple weeks later.
> 
> (I edited and reposted this chapter last night. Thanks to onceuponawhine for the constant support and encouragement!)

“ _Bari Ma, thori si cheezein rahe gaye thein pichhli dafa. Humne phir se bahir nikal na hai. Aap ko Lalbazar se kuch chahiyye toh nahin hai_?” Paro’s voice is businesslike and brisk, and somehow she’s able to meet Badi Ma’s eyes directly, although she doesn’t glance at Bhuvan’s cousin or his wife, whom she’s only just briefly met, certain they’ll be able to read the lie in the set of her shoulders, the flicker of her eyelids.

Badi Ma smiles placidly, gives her a short list, and when she cautions Paro kindly about getting lost in the market like she did last time, urging her to bring along one of the servants to guide her, Paro laughs, the sound shot through with embarrassment. “ _Oh Badi Ma, woh toh ek hi dafa tha. Hum phirse nahin goomne waalein hein. Yeh bhi ab humaara hi gaown ho gaya hain, na, humaari hi sheher? Vaisay bhi, sab apne apne kaamon mein masroof hain—hum khudthi jaakar aateinhein, warna bohat waqt zaaya ho jai ga. Hum jaate hain._ ”

_____________

She orders the cloth first, informs the merchant on the _haveli_ to which the delivery is destined, then deposits a leather pouch with half the payment onto his counter, telling him that the rest of the sum will be received upon delivery. She wanders in and out of a couple more shops, picking up a few _chhoti moti cheezein_ for Badi Ma’s inspection, and a beautifully carved, jointed wooden doll for Kalika with real black hair and delicate silk garments.

When she’s tarried long enough for her alibi to be believable, she returns with her packages back to the carriage and instructs the coachman to wait for her; that no matter how long she takes, he’s not to leave the bazaar, although he may visit the shops or sit in the shade if he’d like.

She slips easily through the crowds, her _chunni_ pulled up high to hide her face. She hates that she’s still a newlywed and therefore required to wear the most resplendent _kaam waley kaprey_ and heavy, noisy jewelry to show off her new husband’s wealth, although it has the advantage of parting the simpler folk for her like a shark does a school of fish. She hopes that she’s far enough away from the _haveli_ that most people won’t recognize her, despite her finery.

As the lanes and _gallis_ around her become narrower, seedier, she prays no one will bother her in broad daylight. Once or twice she feels, rather than sees, someone pushing off a doorway towards her in her peripheral vision, but no one calls out to her, and she doesn’t ever stop or turn around. It’s with trepidation mixed with relief that she finally sees the huge _kothi_ where Chandramukhi lives, gleaming like so many polished _shankhe_ in the languid afternoon sun.

_____________

“ _Haan ji, haan ji_ , I know very well who you are! _Aapke baar baar aaney sey toh humaari kothi mein kitna prakaash pheilgaya hai!_ —” The madam touches Paro’s feet as soon as Paro introduces herself and Paro’s stomach gives a lurch of revulsion, but before she can open her mouth, the woman ushers her inside, “— _aajaiye, aajaiye, thakurainji, hum apni beti koh bulaateinhein_.” The madam— _Aapa_ , she’s heard the courtesans call her—gives her a shrewd look before calling Chandramukhi with a voice that carries like the best street hawker’s.

Chandramukhi is wearing a plain _lehenga voni_ in _Jodhpur_ blue, butter yellow, cotton white, the broad metallic border of it whispering over the stairs as she descends. Her hair is unadorned, tied back with a simple ribbon. The dips of her wrists and throat are bare, and only plain gold hoops glint at her ears and nose. But her steps still jingle, and she is still the most beautiful woman Paro has ever seen.

At the sight of Paro, her look of faint boredom blooms into one of genuine pleasure and her _ghunghroo_ chime faster, matching the bounce of her steps. “Are you going to visit me every week, until the day I say I’ve seen your precious Dev?”

Her voice is arch, lilting—she’s being playful, but something throbs unexpectedly between Paro’s ribs. “No,” Paro answers quietly. “I wanted…” Her gaze flickers to the _Aapa_ , who says casually, “Chandramukhi, why don’t you take your guest upstairs? I’ll send Hamsini with _chai_ in a few minutes.”

_____________

She takes off her _chunni_ when they reach her quarters, slings it casually over the back of a chair as she passes. Raises her _lehenga_ so that her pretty white knees are bare, lays down diagonally across her rumpled sheets with a sigh, props herself against a great round velvet _gao takiya_. Looks up and grins when she sees Paro still standing ramrod-straight in the doorway as if she was planted there, an _ashoka_ tree in her green _chunni_ and scarlet _sindoor_.

“ _Aa bhi jaiye, thakurain_ ,” Chandramukhi laughs, the sound like ice in a glass, a tinkling invitation. She leans up, pats the bed beside her. “ _Hum khaa toh nahin jaayeinge aapko_.”

Paro, uncertain about the etiquette regarding entering the bedroom of the courtesan with whom one’s childhood sweetheart might be in love, hesitates, opens her mouth, closes it. Swallows. Chandramukhi’s eyes are in shadow from the bright light of the _jaali_ behind her, but her teeth flash a tease, pearls in an oyster.

Paro walks in as far as the chair where Chandramukhi’s white _dupatta_ is, then decides it’s probably safe to sit down there and lower her _dupatta_ too.

Chandramukhi bites her lip over her smile, cocks her head. Asks her, “ _Ab batain_ _, kiss keere ne aapko kata hai_ that you’ve come here for the third time this month? Do you think that if you surprise me one day you’ll catch me stuffing him into a closet?”

Paro gives a weak smile. She misses Dev like she would a limb of her body, but she knows the courtesan isn’t hiding him, and she says so.

“I also know that you love him as much as I do. I think that makes us…unique. I think—” she swallows; pauses, trying to measure her sanity by the number heartbeats it takes to get the words out. Wonders for the hundredth time if she’s making a huge mistake.

“I've never met someone who's loved another human the way I love Dev,” she says finally. “Until you.” Her heart feels like a giant thing with wildly beating wings in a cage too small. She fears she might choke, but she holds Chandramukhi’s gaze, praying the woman sees in her eyes what Paro can’t speak from her lips. Chandramukhi says nothing, but her face is still and clear, a sweetwater pool with no bottom.

“I have no one in my life, Chandramukhi. I am…adrift. I have no siblings, and no childhood friends, nothing to anchor me. _Koi bhi nahin hai, jisko hum apni dil ki baath bataa sakhthein hain_. Dev was—is—everything to me.”

“But you’re married now, surely your husband—?”

“He married me because his house needed a caretaker.” She says it without emotion, but apparently she isn’t adept enough at schooling her face, because she sees a flash of something in return on Chandramukhi’s before her gaze drops to her lap.

The courtesan pauses; works her teeth against her cheek. Watches Paro’s fingers fiddle with the hem of her _chunni_. Says carefully, “But surely you’ll have children one day—”

“ _Hum pehle se theen bacchon ki maa hain_ ,” Paro says automatically. “My eldest got married to a rich man from Lucknow last year” —the sternly-cut jewel on her third finger catches on the threads of the hem— “my son is almost a grown man now” —snags when she pulls— “and my youngest daughter is thirteen” —stretches and snaps the delicate strands. Faintly trembling fingers try to press the damaged fabric back together; when she fails, she looks back at Chandramukhi.

Chandramukhi doesn’t move, doesn’t speak: watches her as if she’s afraid she might say the wrong thing and Paro, raw and bleeding, might fly away for good. She waits.

Slowly, quietly, as if each word costs her great effort, Paro murmurs, “ _Koi na koi hona chahiye iss duniya mein_ , who knows what I am going through, Chandramukhi. Who knows _me_. I am surrounded by people, all the time, but I am completely alone. I have no one. I have lived as an ascetic in my own house for almost a year, because my husband still loves his dead wife, and refuses even to be near me.” Her voice is almost bitter, almost abandoned.

“I had my chance with Dev and I refused it, because he refused me. And now I will never again know a lover’s touch.” She locks eyes with Chandramukhi, whose face is stricken, and implores her to understand. “I will never know a _loving_ touch. And it’s my fault, and I have no recourse. And I can no longer bear it alone.”

Confusion, revulsion, sorrow, pity. The emotions flash across Chandramukhi’s face like bolts of lightning in a storm cloud, unbidden and devastating. Finally, the rain: she looks at Paro with only naked, open kindness on her face. Paro hates it, drinks it in. Wishes she were anywhere in the world but here.

“What can I do for you, Paro?” The soft wash of her voice makes Paro’s traitorous eyes burn.

“Can two souls who are so different on the outside be the same underneath?” she asks, the tightness in her throat reducing her voice to a shattering whisper.

“Of course,” Chandramukhi replies at once. The intensity of it hangs for a moment, but Chandramukhi doesn’t look like she wants to take it back; looks, in fact, like she’s suddenly holding back from Paro, holding something far more heavy than she’s willing to let go of in front of her.

“I’m expected to act as Bhuvan Chaudhry’s wife and be content for the remainder of my days. _Par hum nahin kar paa sakhthe_. I cannot. How can I forget part of my very soul? The half that completes me? Can I leave it behind and act as if I am the same person without it? And you are the only person who could ever understand this, because you feel the same—don’t you?” she adds desperately.

As her voice quickens, she watches Chandramukhi lean up more and more off her cushion, her brow twisting in distress. “To forget the one who brought you to life, who formed you in his image, is impossible. And yet, the pain of separation is unbearable. Isn't it? I’ll drown myself, or I’ll drink poison, whatever it takes to leave this world, because this is not a life worth living.”

At these words, spoken with the ringing hollowness of dull iron, Chandramukhi rises up like a great wave and sweeps towards Paro, shaking her head, reaching out her hands, grasping for her like a lifeline—

“ _Paro, meri baath suno_ —no, _listen to me_ Paro.” Her voice is shaking, but her hands are firm when she grips her elbows, forces her to meet her eyes, sparrow-bright. “ _Yeh nahin ho sakhtha_. I won’t let you do it. How would I be able to face Dev, knowing I let his Paro do such a thing to herself? He would be damned, and me with him.”

Chandramukhi kneels before Paro, their hands joined in Paro’s lap. “Don’t you dare, Paro. Don’t you dare. Whatever you need, I’ll be it. But I won’t watch this happen to you. You are too precious—” she reaches up and gently cups one cheek, and Paro can smell the mehndi on her fingertips, “—the _only_ thing he loves, or lives for.”

Her eyelashes flutter closed against her palm. Someone’s breath catches. Paro feels like the floor is whirling beneath her. If not for the russet bloom of Chandramukhi’s hand twined between hers, she feels like she might shatter and spin out into dust.

Chandramukhi’s voice seems to come to her from a long way off, plaintive, soft like a reed pipe. “Paro…I will be here. _Jo bhi aapko chahhiye hoga, hum banjayengai_. But don’t do that to Dev babu—don’t do that to me. Promise me.” Paro is _lajawaab_ ; she shakes her head, feels her throat might collapse from relief, her lungs might splinter from the sheer grace of Chandramukhi’s embrace. But Chandramukhi is insistent. “ _Promise me_.”

The tear falls completely outside of Paro’s want or control. She watches Chandramukhi’s eyes follow it likewise, to the corner of Paro’s mouth. When Paro is finally able to say, “I promise,” her voice a barely audible rasp, the spell breaks. Chandramukhi’s breath trembles from her like she’s suddenly cold. She looks up into Paro’s eyes as if for the first time; swallows. “Good,” she says softly. Her thumb smooths over the swell of her cheek, almost absently.

The _azaan_ very suddenly rings out from across the river, pulling them out of the strange, glistening, silvery-fragile dimension they’d fallen into. “Forgive me, _Thakurain_ ,” Chandramukhi murmurs, standing up and reaching over Paro’s head for her _dupatta_ without looking at her. “ _Humne namaaz parnihain_. But I will come back and then we can fix that little tear in your _chunni_ , alright?”

She disappears so quickly it’s like she’s taken the breath from Paro’s lungs with her. Paro floats somewhere between disoriented and relieved; takes several deep, calming breaths through her nose; tries to feel and not feel the blooming sweetness scorching the undersides of her ribs. She misses Dev so fiercely it bruises her bones just to hear Chandramukhi talk about him.

To hear Chandramukhi talk about _her_ like he would have.

For a moment, she swears the coppery sweetness of Chandramukhi’s lingering scent is the caress of Dev’s hand against her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, Chandramukhi's Muslim! If you don't like it, jump in the Ganga, see if i care lmao


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few golden hours, and a promise.

Chandramukhi splashes water over her face and arms, dips her trembling hands in the washbasin and passes them over her hair, pours water from a clay jug over her pretty white feet and shakes the _chheetein_ off her fingertips, her heart beating double time as she tries to clear her mind for _namaaz_.

She keeps her face averted from Paro when she passes the armchair and _Allah ka shukar karti hai_ that the _jainamaaz_ points toward the setting sun, keeping the girl out of her line of sight. When she finally _salaams_ out of prayer, Paro has covered her head again and is watching her like she’s afraid that if she blinks she’ll disappear. Chandramukhi tries a smile. _“Kya aapne Musulmaan ko kabhi apne Rab ko ibaadat dehne nahin dekha?”_

Paro shakes her head with a shy smile. _“Theen bachhon ki maa, ek haveli ki thakurani, aur phir bhi itna hai jo humhe nahin maaluum.”_

Chandramukhi’s smile widens at the self-deprecation, her heart fluttering, and at that moment, Hamsini, in the bright pink sari Aapa had stitched for her just the previous week, pads up the stairs with a tray of tea and sweets for them, and Chandramukhi can almost breathe normally again.

_____________

When they’ve settled with their _chai_ on opposite ends of the bed (Chandramukhi insists on installing Paro at the head, so the cool evening breeze off the river blows directly at her back and ripples the folds of her sari), the courtesan asks her again, gently, delicately, like the scales off a butterfly’s wings: “What can I do for you, Paro?”

Paro looks into her glass, thumbs the rim, says quietly, “I want...I _need_ someone to know what I'm going through. I need someone to understand the _missing_ _him_ the way I do. Even if he never comes back, we two know who he is, and how special he is, _hai na_?” She hates how her eyes plead, how exposed she feels with the sun on her back and Chandramukhi’s moonbeam gaze on her face.

But Chandramukhi looks down into her own glass, smiles tenderly. “I didn't know what existence was until I met him,” she replies after a moment. “I came to life the night he entered this _kothi_. A mind like his, I’ve never seen before. He always matched my wit, always was ready to counter my jibes with his own.”

“Mine too!” replies Paro. “I always thought I was clever until Deva opened his mouth.”

“And the way he started talking like some _bara angrez sahib_ whenever he got angry,” Chandramukhi adds, jumping up suddenly and clasping her hands behind her back, heels together, in perfect imitation of a British officer, and Paro lets out a startled peal of laughter. Chandramukhi grins and seems to float back down onto the bed, her eyes sparkling with pleasure.

“You know, when we were little,” Paro says shyly, “and we used to play together, his father would send the servants to chase us out of the orchards, and drag him back home and leave me there alone. But it was a huge estate, and I always got lost without him to lead me out.” Here Chandramukhi makes a shocked, pitying noise, but Paro shakes her head and continues eagerly, “ _Sunno na!_ So he would take the stolen fruits from his pockets, and drops pieces all along the way back, so I could follow him at a distance and find my way home.”

“ _Hai_ ,” Chandramukhi coos adoringly, placing her hand over her breast. Paro can feel herself blushing under Chandramukhi’s warm, bubbly gaze. She imagines she must be looking at her and seeing young Dev himself, floppy hair and long limbs, lifting her up by the knees to grab the best lychees, the mangoes so ripe they dripped syrup along their sides, _keenu_ that fell away in their hands by the dozen.

Or perhaps, more likely, she’s imagining herself in Paro’s place, holding Dev’s hand to pull him along and show him the creatures in the watering hole, half frog and half fish, with great broad tails and little legs pumping hard to flee to the shade of _kamal_ pads when they felt the children coming.

Paro feels no jealousy at the thought: Chandramukhi deserves these memories for how much she loves Dev, how much she’s suffered; she won’t begrudge her such a small pleasure as stolen fruit from fifteen years ago.

After a moment, Paro continues, “I can still feel his hand in mine.” She hesitates, then, more quietly, “His breath on my shoulder. Without him I feel like a ghost. I walk among people who only know me as ‘Parvati’, and I keep waiting for a voice I recognize to call out, ‘Paro!’…”

Lost in thought, she pulls her knees to her chest, her eyes drifting to the sparkling lamps that border the room, glinting in the slanting afternoon sun; the glowing bottles of perfume lined up like the fish in the stalls she’d passed in the market today, still wet and glistening, treasures from another world; the bright green _tota_ watching her intelligently from inside his golden cage, as if he’s gleaned all her secrets in the short time she’s been here, and is ready to spill them to Chandramukhi the instant she leaves. This whole strange, hidden realm, in which she’s no less alien than the house she shares with the man she married.

“ _Humari puuri zindagi, unhi ki jeene mein shaamil thi_ ,” she says finally. “My soul formed in loving him, my essence only created by the act of worshipping him. I don't know who I am without him, where I belong. I’m a wraith in my husband’s _haveli_ , and I can never again go back to my own. Do I even take form if he’s not around? _Humari bechein rooh ko shaanti kahaan mil sake gi?_ ”

Chandramukhi replies softly, “ _Agar mohabbat zindagi ka maqsad hai, aur ishq Ishwar ki ibaadat_ , then I wasn't born in this world until I fell in love with him. I did not know my Lord until I laid eyes on him. I only came into bloom when the season of Dev arrived, and now that he has gone I feel like I might not last this unforgiving winter...” Her voice turns brittle as she trails off, steals a glance at Paro, timid as a fawn in the reeds.

When she sees Paro is watching her, eyes sharp and sweet as a mountain stream, she gives her a tremulous smile, her eyes burning with hope. “Unless I might take shelter with you, Paro? The warmth of your memories of him might tide me over until he returns.”

Paro’s heart soars; suddenly the winged thing in her chest is wheeling through honey-colored clouds with nothing but blue skies above. She swallows hard, feels pinpricks of something soft and sweet, like rosebuds bursting through her ribs. Her voice shakes a little when she says, “Then it's settled, isn’t it? We need him, and for that we need each other.” She uncurls herself, stretches out a hand to Chandramukhi, who hesitates, tentatively threads their fingers together. “We will keep him alive for each other,” Paro says, feeling brave and alive for the first time in months, “and keep each other alive through him.” She’s not sure whose heartbeat she can feel pounding between their joined palms, warm and breathing, a thing alive, and wanting.

_____________

The hours slip away as easily as steam from their teacups, Paro watching Chandramukhi’s every graceful movement like she’s memorizing a dance. Chandramukhi flutters between the vanity table and the bed, threading needle, thumbing thimble, humming a _ghazal_ Paro’s never heard, and comes to rest on the bed with Paro’s ripped dupatta pulled over her lap, spread like a broken wing.

It takes her all of sixty seconds to fix what Paro’s torn, their knees overlapping in the rumpled sheets, Paro’s eyes transfixed by Chandramukhi’s clever fingers moving like little birds, in, out, under; and when she ties the final knot, lowers her head to put her hand and mouth to Paro’s knee to snap the thread between her teeth, she looks up at Paro and then—her eyes dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second—a look like she’s just caught her out—at what, Paro has no idea.

The shafts of daylight through the gauzy curtains over the _jaali_ stain the pale marble floors delicate shades of green, blue, pink, and orange, that turn watery with the sinking sun. They trade stories of Dev and slowly finish off the fruit and _matthaiy_ on the _pyaala_ between them, their fingers accidentally brushing when they reach for the same _angoor_. The heat, the sweetness, Chandramukhi’s polished silver voice, the green smell of the river at her back—Paro feels like she’s in a dream of the most exquisite kind.

When the _azaan_ echoes out for a second time, Chandramukhi starts and cries out in alarm, grabs Paro’s hands and pulls her to her feet, tows her out the door and down the stairs, their _chunnis_ both flying, telling her she must leave the neighborhood now, _immediately_ , before it gets dark. Paro can smell earthy sweat and sugarcane from Chandramukhi’s hair streaming out in front of her, and her _ghungroo_ jangle frantically as they race across the _kothi’s_ wide entrance hall.

As they near the arched entrance, Chandramukhi calls out, “ _Bhaijaan!”_

A lanky man in a _dhoti_ seems to materialize from the pillars of the _kothi_ itself, carrying a sword and scowling.

Paro’s honeyed-slow brain barely has time to register that Chandramukhi is still gripping her hand like she’s afraid she’ll dematerialize, before Chandramukhi is spinning her so they’re face-to-face. Paro stands a bit bemused before her as Chandramukhi runs her hands over her frame, adjusts her _chunni_ , her hair, wipes a smudge of _surma_ from under Paro’s eye and a bead of syrup from her the corner of her mouth.

“ _Chalo_ , you look respectable enough,” she says softly. “Not at all like you’ve been in a whorehouse.” Her mouth is a tense line, but her eyes dance with mischief. She kisses Paro on the cheek with a breathy goodbye, _“Ab jaiye, seedha ghar jaiye,_ and don’t stop—don’t give anyone a chance to talk about you.”

_____________

Escorted by Bhaijaan, who looms menacingly in front of her with his sword out, Paro makes her way through the silkening darkness with hurried steps, though in truth her feet simply follow the huge man in front of her unconsciously, because her mind is still swirling in the sweet memory of Chandramukhi’s soft fingertips against her skin, the hum of her perfume in Paro’s lungs when she kissed her without warning, and the feeling of flying as they raced down the marble staircase together.

Very suddenly, it seems, Bhaijaan is wordlessly holding the carriage door open for her, the coachman is close to tears with relief, and Paro, still half-dreaming, gives the order to take her back home, feeling blurred and slow, like her limbs are moving through molten silver, her head still lost in the clouds.


End file.
